


you are my prologue, my epilogue

by theproseofnight



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clexa Week 2020, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Valentine's Day, soft and in love clarke, soft and in love lexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:07:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22974505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theproseofnight/pseuds/theproseofnight
Summary: Being with Lexa has always been an intense, deeply intimate experience, but this particular coming together in the afterglow reanimates for Clarke, once again, the simple clarity of the sea coming to collect the shore.ORa look back and forward in theExcept You Loveuniverse, through five valentines, plus one more, aka five+ ruminations on love.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 15
Kudos: 202





	1. a kind of joy, a field of dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks for catching me."
> 
> "Always."

— 1 —

**February 14, 2003**

It’s new, this feeling. This kind of joy.

The grass is cool underneath her socked feet, shoes set aside, sneakers next to a set of cleats. Lexa lies perpendicular, head on her lap. The sun kisses copper skin a deeper shade of red-brown where it isn’t covered by a uniform.

Their high school stands stalwart beyond, a silhouette of grey stillness against a pinking horizon. The bleachers are empty. The baseball field is quiet. Absent of the usual din and chatter during games and practices, the last of the latter having ended hours ago. It’s an unseasonably warm day, Spring poking in a hello and getting ahead of itself to give a preview of what’s in store. The spike in mercury making the pre-season more pleasant, moving the team’s indoor activity outdoor. As it has been their in-season routine, she and Lexa had stayed behind, greedy for more idle time together. Greedy for this feeling.

Clarke has been playing with Lexa’s hair, a soft exploration of fingers threading and unthreading strands of wheat-brown, while her girlfriend fights exhaustion to stay awake and listen to her latest anecdotes of the Print Club’s antics. _Girlfriend_. The word still sends the butterflies in her stomach into a frenzy whenever she thinks or says it.

They’ve shared so many firsts in the past half year, the winged monarchs haven’t had much chance to rest. Among the inordinate amount of kissing and discovering of each other’s bodies of late, however, it’s the casual intimacy—moments like this—that has them working the hardest.

As friends they have always held hands. Always touching or in touch with one another, in some way. But now, ever since the affirmation of mutual like of the non-platonic kind, there’s a different weight to Lexa’s hand in Clarke’s, the one not in her hair but gently laid on her stomach, fingers entwined. Clarke never thought happiness had a mass, but if it does, then it’s a lightness, a dispersal of tingles and spread warmth and travelling contentment. This sensation of holding hands—the flutter of a thousand hellos in a single press—feels like Clarke has been heavily entrusted with the world in her palm. A feeling of utter joy that she and Lexa are tied together in the simplest but most significant way.

“Lex?”

“Mhm,” Lexa acknowledges, quirks her eyebrow to indicate she’s listening but otherwise doesn’t open her eyes. Her lips are slightly parted, a breath away from dozing off.

They look so kissable.

Clarke can’t resist, momentarily setting aside what she wanted to say. Tracing Lexa’s jaw, she bends her head down, placing her mouth over Lexa’s, the faintest press for a loose seal. It’s not quite a kiss, not yet, merely a taste of sunshine under her lips. A squeeze of fingers lets her know, that won’t do. So Clarke dips in and Lexa sighs contently, adjusting to receive her. Both hum into the kiss. A murmuring exchange of soft moans and wilful tongues, it makes Clarke’s heart pound louder. The sound rushes in her ear, competes with the flurry of activity in her stomach.

Lexa tastes like banana and spring berries, a surfeit of honey in winter, like a pocket of light that’s found its way between dense, snow-covered groves. Maybe the February day’s unseasonable warmth isn’t so much a temperature difference as it is a Lexa difference. How summer stays on her skin and lingers in her touch and beckons in the movement of her lips. The way her kiss is coterminous with the stretch of an unsetting sun, it has Clarke’s heart chasing after an unbounded horizon of golds and saffrons and burnt yellow hues.

“There’s something I want to give you,” Clarke whispers when they separate, remembering why she wanted Lexa’s attention in the first place.

“Is it a lap dance?” The same lifted eyebrow is now joined by the other, waggling teasingly. “Because I don’t know if I have the energy to sit up but I am willing to sacrifice.”

Clarke laughs, sweeping excess moisture from Lexa’s bottom lip with her thumb. She clears her throat, a slight leftover rasp.

“No. Um, I got you something, uh, for today.”

That gets a different reaction. Lexa opens her eyes in alarm, concern washing over her face. On cue, the newly dry bottom lip juts out. “But you said we weren’t going to be cliché.”

Clarke can feel the fully formed pout without seeing it as she reaches behind and rummages through her backpack.

Lexa does find the energy to sit up, mirroring Clarke’s position to sit cross-legged. But she must find the distance unsatisfactory because she’s immediately shuffling Clarke forward by the hip until Clarke is in _her lap_.

“This isn’t exactly cliché,” Clarke remarks, eyeing Lexa’s gym bag anxiously.

In a cliché move, Lexa distractedly reaches up to adjust Clarke’s beanie, a-skewed from earlier. Warm fingers carefully reset it in place, pulling the double-folded band down for better coverage. She can feel her ears tipping red at the tender gesture but luckily the wool hides them from incrimination. Not much can be done about her nose though, which must be Rudolph-bright because it draws Lexa’s attention. A soft kiss lands on its tip followed by an equally chaste one to the corner of her mouth that Clarke fights not to chase. Then the dimple in her chin, then her neck. Chuckling, Clarke pulls away from Lexa’s nuzzling attempt.

“You’re distracting,” she says, trying for stern. “Let me be romantic here.”

Lexa makes a show of sweeping her hand as if to say, the floor is yours, giving Clarke room to make her case. “Fine.”

”I know it’s an unconventional valentine’s gift,” Clarke prefaces, “but yours is so old and battered I thought you could use something that doesn’t look like it’s been run over by a car.”

Lexa’s lingering protest gets derailed by her piqued curiosity as she tries to peek behind Clarke’s back. Attempts to draw Clarke into yielding, tickling her sides. Fighting laughter, Clarke puts a hand to her chest to keep her distance, which is somewhat impossible given the nearly non-extinct space between them.

“If you don’t like it, we can return or exchange,” she prefaces, a slight worry that it might be off the mark, “I still have the receipt.”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll love—” Nervously, Clarke pulls the gift into view, “—it.” Lexa finishes her sentence sounding less sure than when she started it, blinking at what’s been put in her hands.

Clarke tries to read her agape expression, unsure if the speechlessness is a positive or negative.

“There’s a card,” she prompts.

Lexa peels back the leather and opens the folded paper from the web.

 _Something to help you catch me because I’m falling for you_ , she reads aloud. Raising her head to meet Clarke’s eyes, her gaze softens. Its fondness has Clarke rethinking the cliché she was adamant about avoiding but ultimately gave into for the perfect pun it presented. _Will you be my Valentine?_

“Is it ok?”

“You got me a glove?” Lexa asks in lieu of an answer. Both awe and a tinge of disbelief colouring her question.

Nodding, Clarke gnaws on her lip. “The sports guy told me the thick palm pad will reduce impact, whatever that means,” she mutters. “But that’s good, right, for impactful balls?”

Honestly, she has no clue. She had flustered the middle-age salesman by going into extraordinary detail about Lexa’s very capable hands, the particular length of her fingers, and the absolute need to protect them. By the time he rang her purchase through, the man was an inexplicable shade of red.

On Clarke’s expectant look, Lexa breaks into a wide smile. She lets go of the baseball glove to cup Clarke’s face and kisses her deeply.

This kiss has none of the slowness and ambling of the last one. Rather, there’s a plaintive gratitude in the way Lexa sweeps into her mouth.

“Thank you, I love it,” Lexa murmurs against her lips. “I’d love to be your Valentine.”

Clarke grins, pleased at the reception and result. “Did I hit a run home?”

“So close,” Lexa teases, leaning forward for another kiss, “but yes, you did.” She seems to think on it further. Gesturing to the glove, she asks, studying Clarke with an odd look of affection, “Do you know what this is?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “Obviously.” She waves her hand dismissive. Like, no duh. “It’s a ball container.”

Lexa laughs.

“Right, but … Clarke, I’m a pitcher,” she deadpans. Amusement sits at the corner of her mouth. Her lip twitches, straining to hold back a larger smile. “This is a catcher’s mit.”

Clarke blinks confused.

“Don’t you catch balls?”

“I do, sometimes. But mostly, I _throw_ them.” With her emphasis on the particular verb, Lexa is hinting at something that Clarke can’t quite compute. Is there a difference? Doesn’t a ball need to be thrown for it to be caught, she wonders if Lexa hit her head during practice and has forgotten this basic tidbit about her sport.

“But you read _Catcher_ in the Rye. It’s one of your faves.”

The dog-eared novel is in Lexa’s bag. Clarke knows this because she helped to pack it up, as she does whenever in attendance and waiting for Lexa post-game or training wrap up. Usually ignoring the overheard teasing by her teammates, “Cute, Lexa. Where can we find our own ball girl?” The subsequent reward kiss makes it worth it, as does the glare and finger Lexa would flip at them while making it clear by the sliding of her mouth that Clarke is special, not an easily found girl.

“There are no catcher mits in the book. Holden has a fielder’s glove,” Lexa replies, poking a hole into Clarke’s sound logic.

Notwithstanding that the provided detail does nothing to further enlighten her, Clarke feels familiar warmth at Lexa’s patience with her bafflement with sports nuances and terminology.

When her point doesn’t stick, Lexa changes tact. “Also, I’m right handed.”

“I know!” Clarke perks up at getting something right. “That’s why I got you a right hand glove.”

Lexa’s held-in smile breaks into a full bloom. She chuckles. “That means I throw with my right hand,” she says.

Clarke doesn’t see the problem. Right, _right_.

“… therefore I catch with my left.” Lexa fills in, waits.

Clarke’s confusion deepens, not knowing what she is waiting for.

Looking endeared, and seemingly giving up on the circularity of her verbal explanation, Lexa disengages from their face-to-face hold. Just when Clarke thinks she’s abandoned the argument, Lexa opts to demonstrate instead. She scoots behind her and adjusts Clarke to sit between her legs.

Chest leaned into Clarke’s back, Lexa brings her arms around to place the glove on Clarke’s right hand. Reaching into her bag, she retrieves a ball and puts it in Clarke’s left.

“See?” Lexa asks softly into the shell of Clarke’s ear.

“No.” Clarke gulps. She doesn’t see but she certainly _feels_.

“You throw with your left and catch with your right,” Lexa patiently elaborates. She picks up Clarke’s limp left arm, hand cupping over hers, and makes a sort of winding motion back and forth. “I’m the opposite. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

Lexa laughs. Clarke turns her head, gravitating to the sound. She kisses the underside of Lexa’s jaw then mouths over her pulse point, feeling the vibrations of her laughter.

“Show me again,” Clarke presses into her skin, lips skimming against the growing goosebumps. “Use less words.”

Following a kiss to her temple, Lexa gamely complies. This time, she turns Clarke’s hand holding the ball for her palm to face up. “Left,” she indicates. Then, on a light flick of her wrist, the ball gets tossed into the air. With little effort, she moves Clarke’s open gloved hand underneath its trajectory where it eventually lands with soft aplomb against the leather right into the pocket. “Right.”

“So, it’s not a problem then,” Clarke summarises. “It works.”

“No, not a problem,” Lexa affirms, kissing the top of her head, smiling into Clarke’s hair. “It’s amazing,” and gentler, “you’re amazing.”

Lesson over, Clarke’s ready to pack it in and move onto more leisurely, pleasurable activity than anything involving balls. Before she can come up with a suggestion, Lexa reaches into her bag again, pulling out her old glove.

“Ugh, Lex, no more sports,” Clarke whines, a playful drop of her head back against Lexa’s shoulder in exasperation.

“Promise, no more sports,” Lexa reassures, appeasing with a fond kiss to the top of Clarke’s shoulder.

Curiously, she starts to pick at her old glove, unlacing the leather string from the glove fingers, which seams them together. She pulls it through the small holes, undoing the weaving, until it separates out.

Clarke is captivated by the ritual, watching in silence for minutes Lexa’s methodical disassembling process.

Fiddling with the thick string once removed, Lexa shares, “My mom gave me this glove. I’ve had it for years, since Little League. It was big when I first got it but she promised me I’d grow into it.”

Clarke stays quiet, knowing Lexa is sharing something important. The topic of her late mother rarely comes up.

“The reason it looks like it’s been driven over by a truck is because it was,” Lexa says, continuing, lightly chuckling despite the sad undertone. “Dad helped me to break it in. The leather of baseball gloves is really tough, you have to basically beat it senseless for it to work. It has to be broken before it can be useful.”

“Ah,” Clarke hums listening. Noting the poetic irony.

“Mom wasn’t pleased when he next baked it. Our kitchen smelled like steer hide for a week. She was so mad,” Lexa recounts, a soft shine to her eyes. She takes a moment to collect her thoughts. “I do need something new but I’ve resisted getting another one because of its history.”

“Oh, Lexa,” Clarke says, connecting the dots, worried her gifting has been an overstep. She hurries to retract, “I’m sorry, you don’t have to give up your old glove.”

Lexa shakes her head, soothing Clarke’s concern with another kiss to her head. “No, it’s time for a change. I might have to exchange the one you got for a better fit, but I don’t mind letting go of this one.”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“Okay, we can go together to get whatever you want.”

“I’d like that,” Lexa says softly.

“I can also ask to borrow Lincoln’s pick up and we could go to town running over the glove.”

Something of what Clarke said must make a decision for Lexa because she’s looking at Clarke like she’s just offered to build a baseball diamond in her backyard. _A field of dreams_ like that movie Lexa made her watch last weekend.

And because Lexa wasn’t done torturing her, their movie night-in had turned into a Kevin Costner romcom Sunday. Clarke suspected Lexa was trying to tell her something via Whitney Houston and The Bodyguard, about how she will always—

Lexa derails her mid thought when she picks up Clarke’s hand and double wraps the leather string around her wrist. She gently ties the ends together to create a bracelet.

“I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s because _I thought_ we agreed on not doing it, bucking cliché,” Lexa starts to explain, a minor chastising in her voice before it turns part apologetic, part bashful. “So, this is what I can give you for now.”

For how unassuming the words sound, there’s gravity in their unsaid meaning. A humble piece of Lexa’s history. Of something important and meaningful to her. A bridge between old and new. Clarke feels a stirring in her chest, a rush of breath catching in her throat. Tingles and warmth and contentment spreading once more.

“I’m falling for you too, Clarke,” Lexa further vocalises, the admission expanding Clarke’s chest, pumping more air into already fluff-inflated lungs. They feel ready to burst on the next set of words. “Given your extreme aversion to athleticism, you’re unlikely to catch me in the same way that I can catch you. At least with this,” Lexa plays with the leather string, a shyness still to her tone, “we’ll be tied together and the fall won’t be so bad.”

“Lexa,” is all she can formulate, made temporarily speechless by the simple gesture.

“Will you be my Valentine too?”

With the fumbling grace of a teenager in love, Clarke answers by turning around and re-situating herself in Lexa’s lap. The suddenness of her movements topples them over, putting Lexa on her back with Clarke pressed closely on top.

Heedless of her bumbling attempt at smoothness, Clarke’s reply comes in the form of the wet and sticky kind of agreement.

This kiss is a melding of the first and second. A slow intensity. A drawn out labour of an emergent love. Working and reworking through touch and taste. Lexa’s hand that is not steadying her by the hip, is a tangle of soft and rough in her hair. Tugging Clarke closer, pulling when a nip or tuck or swipe leads to a whimper.

Given their inability as of late to keep hands off one another, it isn’t surprising when things escalate.

Soon, when hip becomes ass and Lexa starts squeezing with intent and Clarke starts grinding with purpose, when the stroking of hair becomes a stroking and kneading of breast, inevitably they get carried away. Clarke knows that self control is slipping from her grasp as easily as the slip of Lexa’s tongue, sensuous and searching for more. Reluctantly, Clarke withdraws, aware that the growing demand of her arousal—a stickiness that’s evidenced by the darkening patch on Lexa’s uniform pants—will be difficult to ignore in the open if they keep going. Lexa’s thumbing and teasing and exploratory hands do not help in the least.

Her attempt at exercising prudence is met with strong resistance in the form of a hard, muscled thigh coming up between her legs. Instinctually, Clarke closes down on it. Betrayed by her own thighs lack of restraint, she starts pushing more fervently against Lexa. Can feel the overflow of wetness below as her body moves traitorously in fraught search for friction.

Triumphant, Lexa resumes their kissing. In minutes, they become a heave of heavy breathing, a blur of hands, a gasping for purchase. Clarke is dry humping like it’s a team sport, her hips picking up pace while Lexa pushes up into her. No thought for the publicness of what they’re doing, they move together in increasing urgency.

“Shit, Lex, I’m gonna…”

“Clarke,” Lexa chokes out, plainly struggling as well, “me too.”

“I … I need you to touch me.” Clarke doesn’t know what she’s asking for, what she expects Lexa can do within the limits of their exposure on the field. No one is around, haven’t been for awhile, but nonetheless anyone can show up at any minute.

The risk of discovery doesn’t seem to faze Lexa. She blindly grabs for her towel next to her cleats and covers it over Clarke’s bottom half, marginally shielding the connection of their bodies from view. Never mind that it doesn’t take 20/20 vision for someone stumbling onto the scene to guess the exact nature of activity of seventeen year olds entangled horizontally, hips undulating in the least platonic, innocent way. It’s not a worry Lexa is occupied with at all, too busy instead rolling Clarke’s shorts down along with her underwear to where they now bunch up at her knees.

Adorably concentrated, Lexa lifts Clarke up before lowering her back down onto her hand that’s since slid between them.

“Ride … ride my fingers,” Lexa instructs, breathless.

And Clarke does. Or she tries, but somehow Lexa’s aim isn’t as true for someone who has won baseball championships.

Their state of ungrace might have something to do with her compromised motor skills.

“Uh, Clarke, where is it?”

Clarke would laugh at the furrowed brows and the look of genuine perplexity, if she wasn’t so turned on. She huffs, “Lexa, my vagina didn’t relocate since last time.”

“It’s just really slippery down here,” Lexa sulks, sounding conflicted between disappointed and determined in her mission. Really, Clarke can’t blame her, unlikely to find it herself at this point. “It’s like looking for a penny in the ocean.” She pushes at Lexa’s shoulder, giving in to laughter then kissing her in encouragement.

“I thought sportspeople are supposed to be good at zeroing in on the target?”

“Help me,” Lexa whines, hapless.

“Maybe I should put a glove there,” Clarke muses. Lexa scowls. Cups her with a retaliatory pressure that has Clarke squeaking in surrender, “Okay, okay.”

Pitying her and absolutely not because of self-interest, Clarke tries to wiggle around. Lexa fidgets and adjusts, a series of minor grunts before she stumbles on Clarke’s entrance, slipping inside. “Found it!”

They both gasp at the contact, the giggles that were forming lose air on their way out as Clarke’s walls pull her in. Muscles pulsing at the now familiar fill.

Clarke jogs her hips and rubs herself against the partial fullness while Lexa shallowly thrusts upwards. They take up an uncoordinated rhythm that somehow works despite the patent awkwardness of still learning the geography of someone else’s body—its textures and tremors and thresholds. It’s not the deepest penetration at this angle but it’s enough for Clarke to cry out within seconds of Lexa circling her clit.

Sex is still relatively new but with each iteration, even as clumsy as this encounter, they reach higher and higher ground. At every climb, Clarke can’t imagine how much more of the sky she can scale but is always surprised by the answer. The ladder of intimacy with Lexa seems to shoot well past the clouds or any atmospheric system. She can’t visualise a day when her feet will touch ground again. Shaky limbs as they are.

“Oh, god, Lexa.”

“Clarke, Clarke …”

They come breaths apart, whimpering into each other’s mouths. Soft noises, high and needy, caught between trembling bodies. Clarke arches before collapsing completely on top of her.

It’s over in a matter of minutes but still feels like Clarke had played a full twenty innings, or however many of those in a game Lexa usually makes Clarke endure watching.

“That’s one way to accept. I can’t believe we did that, _here_ ,” Lexa comments afterward, looking guiltily at their surroundings before turning back to brush a strand of Clarke’s damp hair behind her ear. A slight panting suffuses the awe in her remark. Another milestone they’ve crossed together. A first of public sex.

(Years later when they come together on a beach, under the stars, on a different continent, Clarke will remember this moment and the same way her heart had raced then slowed to steady acceptance. She will always be in love with Lexa.)

Clarke mutters unintelligibly into the crook of her neck and shoulder. Lexa laughs. “What’s that?”

Clarke turns her head, laying it sideways on Lexa’s chest. She drums fingers on the workout top, distractedly tracing the outline of the raccoon mascot. More articulately, she repeats, “Thanks for catching me.”

“Always.” Lexa strokes her back, a gentle rhythm. “Speaking of falling, good thing you’ve got the _goods_ to reduce the impact.”

Confused, Clarke picks her head back up to inquire, first to see Lexa’s lopsided smile and only then notices the fullness still in Lexa’s palm. Lexa squeezes her breast playfully. Clarke swats her away, a fond exasperation.

“Shut up.”

She feels the soft rumble of laughter against her neck again.

“Very good thing,” Lexa tacks on.

Clarke joins in, laughing at her ridiculousness. Grateful for the ease with which they can navigate back and forth between the lines of best friend and girlfriend.

A quiet passes between them for the next while as they enjoy being present and the silent comfort of each other’s company. Distant sounds of lawn sprinklers of the adjacent residential neighbourhood can be heard. Closer, the buzzing of the field’s floodlights coming on alert Clarke to the late hour. Dinner is around the corner. Gustus and Anya are likely waiting, as are Clarke’s parents for their prodigal kin to return. They both need to shower and make appearances at home before holing up at either one of their houses to stretch a warm day spent together into a warmer night.

Clarke rubs at her new leather bracelet, internally calculating a plastic wrapping technique to keep it dry under the shower head. Easily, she could remove it to save herself the trouble, but looking down at the brightness of green eyes reflecting back at her, she never wants to untie the tether.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Clarke.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lexa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Lexa has plans. It involves a stainless steel mixer. Or so Clarke thinks. Either way, college is hard and the real world is waiting, but for one day, it's just them—happy and together.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


	2. maybe three or four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Their favourite music flits in the air, a hum from the vintage record player carrying sweetness in ambient streams. Atmospheric and choral and a little ethereal, not unlike the weightlessness of being a lot in love."
> 
> Lexa has plans. It involves a stainless steel mixer. Or so Clarke thinks. Either way, college is hard and the real world is waiting, but for one day, it's just them—happy and together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take heed, this is basically college fluff, which means lots of kissing and also some rough sex. (But not really that rough because this is Lexa we're talking about after all, who is softness embodied. Oh, and a smidgen of anal.)

— 2 —

**February 14, 2008**

Undergrad, senior year is a fluctuating, temporal thing. At times, it comes and goes in a blur in a rush towards imminent adulthood. At others, it slows to the minutiae of work, study, love. Where highschool felt like one care-free note, college hit several different registers all at once. The demands of growing up—of going somewhere, becoming someone, doing something significant—pushes and pulls them in conflicting directions, and sometimes trying speeds.

Right now, it slows to the meandering of lines emerging from the page of Clarke’s sketchpad. Her lips pull up at the scenes of their morning being laid out in strokes of graphite—a tangle of hair and bedsheets and soft curves. Yellow used sparingly to highlight where sun kisses along edges of a hip or breast or shoulder.

It is the lazy and hazy kind of morning in the dead of winter that necessitates sleeping in and extra cuddles for warmth. This semester has been hectic, schedules overloaded for a last push before Spring Break, but today was long ago marked off by Lexa on their shared Google calendar as dedicated to staying in sweats and doing absolutely nothing.

For a short while, they do precisely nothing but enjoy the simple pleasure of the other’s company. Without purpose. Unfettered indulgence in an aimless, comforting co-presence.

With Lexa wrapped around her body to siphon off Clarke’s heat, the early hours have been spent burrowing in bed and each other, pushing off papers and projects and deadlines. Feet hooked at the ankles, knees and elbows tucked this way and that, fingers skating and stroking in search of open skin. Gazes in search of smiles. Doors and lovers’ secrets opened by a familiar touch or a feather of words. Years compacted into minutes and muscle memory. The outside world delayed and waiting.

Snow had come down heavily on the overnight shift, bringing out ploughs and their loud engines early, before New Yorkers had their first coffee, to make the commute easier for the urbanites to dive into traffic and the daily metropolitan rush. The sky has calmed down since, a light curtain of white scrolling past their window at a more leisurely pace now—a pretty backdrop to pretty green eyes Clarke can’t stop staring into and pretty rosy lips that she can’t stop kissing.

Their favourite music flits in the air, a hum from the vintage record player carrying sweetness in ambient streams. Atmospheric and choral and a little ethereal, not unlike the weightlessness of being a lot in love.

So, Clarke has wanted to keep drawing and keep kissing.

But Lexa has plans.

No intent to idle the day away in this cocoon of soft sighs and muffled voices and breathy laughs that Clarke is wholly resistant to leave. No amount of protest or bribery can persuade her otherwise. Not even when the sketching is paused in favour of Clarke straddling her, desire as bare as Clarke’s upper half on which Lexa’s gaze fixates. The prospect of guaranteed sex only causes a mild dent to steely resolve.

When roving hands and bucking hips and wet inner thighs risk steering them off-course of her day’s itinerary, Lexa promptly steers them out of bed and stations Clarke on the couch, like an adult time-out.

“There better be a good reason, Woods,” Clarke challenges, eyes narrowed and lips thin, “to say no to this.”

“There is.” Lexa gulps, sounding less sure when her eyes flicker over Clarke’s chest where her arms are crossed in complaint, hoodie back on. Her gaze lingers at her last name emblazoned across the college sweater Clarke has long co-opted as her own. “It’s a surprise.”

“I thought we weren’t doing anything this year,” Clarke reminds, despite it being an annual mantra that both of them ignore, how it has essentially become code for the opposite to happen on this day. A canvas sits in her studio at school, the exploration of colour an obvious giveaway of the abstract painting’s subject, full of acrylic evidence of Clarke’s own inability to follow the agreed programme. She was hoping to sneak away sometime later today and somehow cart it back into their apartment without Lexa noticing. The likelihood of that happening is dwindling by the second with the emotional appeal in Lexa’s eyes, whose tint is a purely coincidental mix of ultramarine blue and cadmium yellow.

“ _You_ will not be doing anything,” Lexa corrects, bending down to place a placating kiss to the tip of her nose.

“Perfect, sex shouldn’t be a problem then. I promise not to do anything, I’ll let you do _all_ the work,” Clarke barters, a cheeky grin, trying to tug at the drawstring of Lexa’s pants where she crouches in front of her.

Lexa laughs, swatting her hands away.

“If we start, we’ll never stop.”

“I don’t think that’s as negative of a thing as you think it is.”

“It is for what I have in mind.”

“I have something on my mind too.” Clarke crooks a finger to draw Lexa in closer like she intends to share a secret. When Lexa is within whisper range, she tells her in a low, seductive voice, “Something _mind_ -blowing.”

Clarke delights seeing Lexa recoil at the pun butchering. Offended by the lazy, unoriginal word play.

“C’mon, Lex. Let’s just rub one out,” Clarke whines, dropping her head onto Lexa’s shoulder when she doesn’t budge. “You know you want to.”

“I do, Clarke. But I have a duty to Cupid to uphold first.”

“The only doo-ty you should oblige today is to _do_ me.”

Lexa laughs, giving Clarke credit for speed walking right into that one. She smiles fond, rewarding Clarke with a quick but deep kiss.

“You’re just using me for my body.”

“Yes.”

No rebuttal. Their banter shortens at the softening of Lexa’s gaze. She brushes back stray hairs behind Clarke’s ear before cupping her face with both hands. Thumbs move gently over her cheeks, a plea for Clarke’s cooperation. “Let me do this for you.”

Clarke concedes, nodding, defenceless against the tenderness.

Furnished with a survival kit of her favourite coloured pencils, a sketch pad, a book and the TV remote, then bundled in swathes of blankets to fight the February chill, Clarke is given firm instructions to keep her head forward and her back turned to the kitchen, until receiving the all-clear.

What exactly _this_ is, she isn’t privy to other than the sounds of indistinct puttering between fridge, sink and counter.

“Are you ... cooking?” Clarke asks, alarmed. Her anxiety heightens at the sudden whirl of mechanical sounds, worried it involves the mixer.

“None of your business,” Lexa sing-songs.

Clarke begs to differ it’s very much her queasy stomach’s business if the dreaded thing is part of the surprise.

Two months ago, Lexa had won an industrial grade, stainless steel stand mixer from her school’s holiday raffle. Correctly guessing the number of candy canes in the jar, she’d walked through their apartment that day with chest puffed out, a toothy grin on a sweat-covered face and the not-so-small appliance in her arms. Given her distinct lack of culinary skill, it was a sight as unusual as it was inexplicable why Lexa bothered entering the contest in the first place. Regardless, confusion about the win was set aside seeing her girlfriend’s beaming smile. The crinkling in her eyes always reason enough to accept whatever mischief Lexa plans.

Only, her plan was singular.

Weeks since, Clarke’s been the test victim of every mangled fruit drink possible—chopped, blended, puréed—and has developed particular disdain for liquified papaya. Lately, the insides of her stomach are a baleful orange or green on any given day.

“Seriously, Lex, I can’t handle another fruit.”

“Not fruit.”

“Thank god,” she mutters, relieved.

“What’s that?” Lexa shouts over the mixer.

When Clarke tries turning her head for a peek at what she assumes would be fancy eggs if fruit is off the table, she is on the receiving end of an accusatory spatula pointed her way. “Hey, eyes ahead!”

She doesn’t have the heart to tell Lexa that the TV’s reflection provides a direct, unobstructed view unto an unintended broadcast of Lexa’s activities. Out of respect, Clarke keeps her gaze away from the screen and its mirrored cooking show, deciding to focus on finishing the drawing in front of her.

Other than sneaking a glance every so often to ensure no fire hazards have been started, she gives Lexa the space to do whatever it is she’s doing back there.

For the next while, intermittent sounds (and curses) emanate from their kitchen. A contained chaos that Clarke is forbidden with flour-dusted and adorable nose-crunched sternness from intervening, banished to the living room to await its outcome.

A loud clang is followed by, “damn it”.

“Everything ok?” Clarke asks, not for the first time, over the succession of noises, and not bothering to lift her head to really inquire.

“WHAT?”

Amused, Clarke foregoes repeating herself, aware it’ll go unheard amid the cacophony. Has to bite her tongue on hearing the out-loud questioning, _teaspoon and tablespoon, same thing, right?_ , considering Lexa’s expertise in spoons is limited to being a big one to Clarke’s little one. She tries to pay the impending disaster no further mind, returning to sketching in the pad on her lap.

Clarke’s legs and neck are cramping from being in a prolonged position. Her entire body is going numb but what makes the unorthodox imprisonment bearable so far are Lexa’s frequent visits.

It starts with a breakfast delivery. Coffee and one nutbar.

“Oh, how generous of you.” Clarke’s wry observation is greeted with waggling eyebrows and a wordless kiss to her cheek before Lexa skips away, smug with magnanimity, back to her unspecified project.

Clarke laughs, taking an appreciative bite into the crunchy granola. Grateful it’s at least something solid and not a fruit blend.

The next couple of visits, another set of wordless actions, Lexa’s lips linger increasingly longer where they land and travel increasingly closer to the corner of Clarke’s mouth each time. Accompanying the teasing pecks are arms coming round her shoulders from behind and squeezing tightly, before they and the scent of flour and woodsy vanilla disappear again.

It’s an interesting cooking technique, like Lexa is rewarding herself by kissing Clarke after accomplishing a task.

The fifth time, Clarke is more prepared and with a scheme and technique of her own, leaned sideways against the sofa’s back cushion to better anticipate Lexa’s arrival. She turns her head at the last second when Lexa comes into peripheral view, their mouths connecting with calculated success. Lexa accepts the stolen affection, laughing, and allows Clarke to deepen the kiss, moving easily with the soft demands of her tongue. Something beeps and Lexa breaks away too soon just as Clarke plans to shirk Lexa’s one-sided agenda, to instead spend the rest of the morning engaging in a different kind of nourishment.

By the time Lexa returns, Clarke decides to not play fair. At all. Overheated from the blankets and unmet need, she kicks them aside, stripping down to her camisole and Lexa’s boxer shorts, another purloined article of clothing. Lexa trips over her own feet when she takes note of Clarke’s state of undress. She nearly faceplants a second later when Clarke deliberately stretches her arms above her head and arches her back to work out sore muscles. Well aware of how her top has slipped and what the displacement has revealed.

She takes slow pains to right it, a complete pretence of nonchalance.

“How much longer?” Clarke asks, holding back her laughter at her girlfriend’s intensive focus on her chest. Unrepentant of the thickening vein in Lexa’s neck that gives away her struggle to not close the two feet distance and take Clarke on the couch.

“Um, uh,” Lexa stammers, still not meeting Clarke’s eyes, experiencing great difficulty doing basic math. She diverts her gaze to the ceiling, cheeks blooming a lovely pink of embarrassment.

Not done with her dirty tricks, Clarke scoots to the edge of the couch and pulls Lexa in closer by the waist to step in between Clarke’s open legs, hands hooking behind to rest at the small of her back. She mouths at Lexa’s midsection. With all the put-upon innocence in the world, she husks out, “I’m _hungry_.”

Despite the apron in the way, the effect is all the same as if Clarke had breathed the words into bare skin. Lexa shudders.

“There won’t be anything to eat if you don’t let me finish,” Lexa argues, looking forlorn over Clarke’s shoulder, probably torn about the incomplete dishes on which her romantic gesture rests.

“I’m happy to let you _finish_.” Clarke persists, pressing the play of words into the apron, drawing Lexa’s attention back by pulling at its strings, untying the knot. “Trust me, we’ll both be happy.”

“Fine, one rub.”

Clarke has no time to claim victory.

The apron hits the floor.

Lexa is in her lap, straddling it, and her hands are in Clarke’s hair, making a mess of an already messy bun, kissing Clarke within an inch of becoming one with the couch. Their mouths fit together just as messily but Clarke will take the win.

She also takes one of Lexa’s hands and places it under her cami, guiding it north and giving tacit permission for further upward mobility. Lexa doesn’t hesitate to let it explore before cupping Clarke firmly, kneading her breast.

Someone moans, someone whines. A tongue slips into a mouth, whose and whose, Clarke can’t tell. The kiss takes on a lustful tinge as the angle changes and Lexa starts rocking reflexively against Clarke’s stomach. Clarke’s hands find her ass beneath her joggers and gropes in agreement with the new direction.

Operating from base need, Clarke’s hand soon comes round front, fingers sliding through wet folds. On contact they exchange expletives and Lexa begins grinding against her palm in earnest. She’s bracing both arms against the back of the couch now, on either side of Clarke’s head, gaining leverage to push down harder, enough momentum for Clarke’s fingers to enter. Lexa feels hot and slick. Really hot. _Fuck_. There’s a desperate whimper, possibly from her or Lexa or both. Impossible to distinguish. It all sounds a distant rush in her ears. With the mounting desire building with clinging evidence between them, Lexa is bound to reverse their positions any minute now and take control of wrenching orgasms out of them both. The thought has her pumping faster and Lexa reactively rising and dropping to match, rolling her hips and riding Clarke with singled-minded purpose.

The aim is never reached.

“Baby,” Clarke says, ready to ask if they can move back into the bedroom. The question barely forms. “Can we—”

“Shit. The lentils!”

Just as fast as things had escalated, the weight and warmth on top of her quickly dissipates, leaving Clarke’s lungs empty of air and full of want. Her hearing returns. The sound of boiled water bubbling over and hissing on the stovetop, Lexa scrambling to turn the burner off, is tantamount to pouring cold water over Clarke. She lets her head drop backward onto the top of the couch with a thud. Her arm comes up to rest across her eyes, chest heaving from thwarted arousal.

Lowering it a minute later after her breathing regulates, it’s a small conciliation to see the reflection of Lexa standing with forearms tenting against the kitchen counter, steadying herself with a white-knuckle death grip of its edge. Although her back is to Clarke, by its continuing rise and fall, she’s clearly still recovering and needs an extra minute or a dozen to re-collect. Likely conflicted over sacrificing or pursuing her imminent release. Looking to be deliberating if she should stay rooted in place or retake her spot on Clarke’s lap.

When Lexa doesn’t make a move either way, the throbbing between Clarke’s legs becomes more insistent. Demanding.

As endeared as she is by Lexa’s intention to cook for her, she is also really, _really_ horny from all their morning foreplay but no follow-through. Wants to get an early start for how they’ll inevitably end up by the day’s end. Wants Lexa to come, even if they’re now separated by a short necessary distance sensibly in the name of a fire-free apartment and she can’t take direct action to make it happen. Undeterred and unwilling to admit defeat just yet, Clarke gets creative with her trouble-making campaign.

There are other ways.

She sucks in the fingers that’s been inside Lexa, moaning long and deep when the flavour hits. She can see from the TV that Lexa’s head snaps up at the lewd sound.

“Lexa,” she says, dragging out the ‘a’.

At the call of her name and the drip of desire behind it, Lexa’s head drops back down between her shoulders, as though looking for resolve that’s likely plummeted to between her legs. There’s an extended beat before she ekes a throaty reply, “Yeah?”

“Is the stove off?”

“Yeah.”

“Are your hands clean?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Lexa’s response this time is a hard swallow.

Encouraged by the renewed rapt attention and satisfied with the health and safety check, Clarke brings her fingers south and presses them against herself, stroking through her unaddressed wetness. “I’m touching myself,” she informs crudely. Picks up a rhythm in short order, softly grunting at the effort all the while keeping an eye on the reflection of the figure that’s stood frozen. “With me, please.”

Cluing into what Clarke is doing and spurred on by the noises she’s making, Lexa mirrors her example. One hand is removed from the counter’s edge and shoved down her pants. Her hips begin to jerk in a frantic pattern, like she’s been waiting for the go-ahead.

“I’m going inside,” Clarke pants, pre-flighting her next move, not taking her eyes off the TV. Lexa doesn’t hesitate to do the same by the sound of her hitched breath.

In an adapted game of Simon Says, Clarke announces her actions and Lexa mimics them. It’s a new kind of thrill to masturbate and know that there’s resonance ten feet away. An answering echo. Something so erotic about the screen-mediated voyeurism of watching Lexa essentially fucking herself against their kitchen counter, her erratic driving a standing version of Clarke’s seated pumping. So incredibly intimate in a peripheral, liminal way—joined only by sound and near-proximity.

“Are you close?” Clarke asks through ragged breaths.

“Ye– yeah.”

“Me too,” Clarke expels, a needless confirmation with how loud she’s getting. Her pitch and volume appear to motivate Lexa’s. She tightens the circles and asks Lexa to do the same.

Within minutes, and at Clarke’s direction to _rub your clit for me, love_ , they come together in unison. A separate yet shared mess.

Lexa exhales a soft, “ _fuck_.”

The method may have been unconventional, but it’s rewarding to know their hearts are racing in an identical way. The most Clarke could have hoped for in setting Lexa off-course.

What she doesn’t expect is _how_ rewarding of an outcome it proves to be.

There’s a sharp inhale of air from Lexa like a decision has been made, then, hasty determined steps later, Clarke is given an upside down Spiderman kiss from behind the couch. It’s hungry and hot and dirty. All tongue and teeth and trembling lips, robbing the air from both their lungs. Before Clarke’s next breath can be drawn, Lexa’s head lowers and she mouths over her breast, sucking, taking in as much of the fullness as she can while her hand squeezes the other one with similar greed.

The fingers still inside herself move involuntarily at Lexa’s urgency as Clarke bruises blue and purple into the skin of Lexa’s neck, biting for purchase. Like a switch had been flipped, there’s no chance of slowing Lexa down.

“So good, baby,” Clarke says, a hush of encouragement in Lexa’s ear. She gently strokes through her hair as her head bobs, continuing to lick hotly over Clarke’s nipple. “Did it feel good to come?”

“It wasn’t good.” Lexa pulls back to say, the words at odds with the sound of her aroused voice and the hard, heady kiss that follows. “Belligerent, disruptive. _Distractive_. You weren’t good. Not a good girl, Clarke.”

Clarke thrills at what the reprimand and that tone means. How the click of her name in that particular lilt has always been a precursor to _very good_ things.

“Maybe I don’t want to be,” she eggs on.

It works. Lexa’s free hand reaches down to insert one finger to join Clarke’s two. The pressure is searing but not unwelcome. They work together guiding each other in and out of Clarke. Until a rhythm is set, then surpassed.

The stretch burns. Everything tingles. The combination of Lexa’s touch and mouth, ardent and imperious, feels like a match taken to tinder. A fire in winter and a warmth so humid and enveloping Clarke might melt right off the couch in a puddle of her own desire.

Gulping for air for a moment away from necking Lexa, Clarke’s arousal intensifies at the sight below her. Her shirt is more off than on, rucked up past her ribs, the straps of her cami barely hanging by the shoulder. Where the swell of her breasts aren’t covered, a hand and lips make up the difference, squeezing and sucking. Her boxers are tented by the hands inside and their tandem movements, which have taken on an unsustainable speed. When Lexa does slow it’s only to curl their fingers causing Clarke’s eyes to roll back, reburying her head into the crook of Lexa’s shoulder.

She’s almost coming again when Lexa disappears once more, leaving Clarke slack-mouthed and gasping. A whine is making its way out to complain about a second abandonment when Clarke is flipped to lie flat on her stomach along the length of the couch, an arm wraps under her then around her waist, pulls and drags her backward as if she weighs nothing until she’s pitched over the sofa arm, ass in the air.

Peering over her shoulder finds Lexa on her knees behind her. Pupils completely blown, ultramarine and cadmium replaced by near carbon black, gaze wholly intent on the spread of Clarke’s legs.

There isn’t enough willpower in the world to contain Clarke’s excitement.

Coupled with the strength displayed in Lexa’s manhandling, the intensity of that look causes more arousal to coat the inside of sticky thighs. Her underwear clings to her like a damp second skin. But Lexa doesn’t remove it, not at first. She just cups both ass cheeks, kneading them roughly. Clarke’s head falls forward again and has to support it on crossed forearms, biting into her bottom lip in anticipation of exactly where she knows this is headed.

The first smack comes, no more than an experimental slap to gauge her uptake of the punishment Lexa has in store, but nonetheless her insides sing in pleasure at the minor burn.

“Is _this_ what you want?”

The bite in Lexa’s voice is incredibly attractive because underneath its harshness Clarke knows this is her way of asking and giving Clarke the opportunity to back out.

“Yes.” Clarke answers decisive, even if it sounds strained. _God, yes_.

On a soft reminder to “safe word, ok” and Clarke’s verbal consent, Lexa lands a second hit, harder than the first. Then a third, _harder_ still. In the meantime, between strikes, Lexa’s thumbs have taken to massaging near the hem of her underwear, occasionally stroking the centre in alternating pushes of the fabric with her nose into Clarke, like she’s memorising the intoxicating scent, before dragging the pad of each thumb slowly, ever so slowly, over every fold and bump. She follows this by yanking the sodden cotton aside and tracing the same path with her tongue but at a flickering speed that has Clarke humping their sofa.

Lexa’s tongue is as warm as Clarke’s centre is hot, the two temperatures meeting for a burning sensation.

“Oh, fuck.” Clarke keens. “I’m gonna come.”

“No.” Another slap, the hardest yet. Lexa returns the underwear to its place, palms her with a warning grip, and repeats the entire devastating sequence. “Not until I say so.”

Clarke is helpless to argue that neither of them have much of a choice as to _when_ that happens. With how Lexa edges her for the next breathless moments, it could be at any time, permission granted or not.

Nevertheless, she does her best to open herself to Lexa’s mouth. High and needy to have her close. So insanely turned on by the intimacy.

Mercifully, the boxers are finally shed when Lexa decides she’s ready to move on from teasing. As soon as the barrier is gone, rolled down and tossed somewhere unknown, Lexa is back on her. Breath hot against the temporary cool air. Less merciful is the tongue that returns to the disciplinary action. Lexa does _not_ relent. She swipes the flat of it long and hard then sucks Clarke’s clit and laves at its tip at a pace and fervour that makes the couch groan under the weight of Clarke’s desperate squirming trying not to come.

“Lexa, please.” Clarke begs, and has only the wherewithal to specify, “Want. Inside.”

Lexa doesn’t go inside. At least not there. She continues to knead Clarke’s ass, spreading her cheeks wide, while her tongue does its punishing surface work. Clarke doesn’t realise until the fire building low in her belly grows tenfold that Lexa’s been rimming her. Thumb and tongue coordinating to delirious effect. Clarke hears a wet pop sound like Lexa might have put her thumb in her mouth in prep. It’s confirmed when Lexa enters her, a shallow penetration, soft and wet and a solid challenge to her ability to breathe. Testing the give of muscles until Clarke is ready. It doesn’t take long.

“Here?” Lexa asks, an innocence betrayed by the way her thumb pushes in further past the tight ring to the first knuckle, twists and hooks in slow, deliberate agony.

Clarke can only manage a furious nodding of her head into her pillowed arms.

Lexa’s mouth collects the outpouring resultant desire in fevered strokes, tongue gathering the overflow to redistribute to Clarke’s swollen clit where she persists in her oral attention.

Lexa’s thumb is soon replaced by one finger pumping in a concentrated pattern, then two fingers filling her below, working in breathtaking concert. “Or here?”

“Ohgodohgodohgod,” strings together, an incoherence of pleasure. Lexa kicks her legs farther apart, deepening the angle and widening the stretch. Or is it widen the angle and deepen the stretch?

The three sensations overlap, the double fullness blurring into a singular ecstasy.

When Clarke is close to blacking from the dismantling, Lexa drapes herself over Clarke’s back, frees a hand to run up her stomach under her cami and cups her breast with close to violent desperation, and starts rutting with abandon.

“You’re going to come so hard,” Lexa promises, breathless in her ear. Pulls out and then snaps her hips to push back in with near-breaking force, making her intent clear.

It registers that Lexa is also bottomless, skin bare on Clarke, centre hot and searching for its own release against her red bottom, wetness painting the back of Clarke’s thigh. She’s pounding into Clarke. Fast and rough and almost painful.

“Fuck!” Clarke sinks into the couch as Lexa buries the next thrust. Then the next. Then a series of them in quick fire. The heel of palm slapping against Clarke’s cunt on each entry. The base of it dragging against her clit makes Clarke’s throat raw with mewling, cloying need.

“You’re going to feel it for days.” Lexa grunts.

She feels it _now_ and _needs_ to let it out.

“Can I, please ... can I _please_ come?” Clarke begs again, voice hoarse where her mouth hangs open with saliva dripping onto the cushion. “Please let me.”

She thinks the answer is a _no_ with the wordless reply of skin slapping skin, Lexa’s fingers sliding in and out faster. Mounted like this, Clarke has no recourse but to yield to the brutal rhythm and embrace the denial of release. Implicitly trusting Lexa with knowing her limits.

Her body is a tight coil about to unfurl. She arches her back to keep from coming but the measure proves counterproductive. It only pushes her further into Lexa’s hand. Lexa’s fingers are pistoning into Clarke with extraordinary accuracy at this point, slamming into her with marksmanship precision.

By contrast, the hand on her breast is wild and unfocused. Grabbing and groping with lost aim. The disparate technique between north and south has the room spinning east and west.

Clarke can’t hold on anymore. Her body trembles from the restraint.

“Please.”

Adding a third finger, Lexa’s cry of _yes_ coincides with the split-second arrival of Clarke’s orgasm but she doesn’t stop thrusting until Clarke crashes headlong into another then the next. Even then Lexa fucks into her like this is all that Clarke’s body was made to do—receive Lexa.

“Take it, Clarke.” It’s meant as a command but Lexa says it so softly, it might as well be a vow. “Take it, baby.”

Clarke pushes herself up onto her arms, drawing energy from an unknown well, to better brace herself to do just that. Keen to be helpful, greedy for another unravelling. But she underestimates the shakiness of her limbs and the jello condition that her body has become. Her unexpected movement topples them over backwards onto the floor somehow. Legs akimbo in a heap of undignified yelps. Lexa has broken their fall but remains committed to finishing.

Through laughter and intense arousal, on all fours, Lexa brings them to a blistering final high. One that ends in total ruin with Clarke squirting onto hardwood. Lexa scissoring her from behind and coming just as long and hard and wrecked a minute after. Their cries, shattering and seismic, reverberate for a long while.

“Jesus, Lex.”

There’s no answer for several beats, just corresponding heavy breathing and Lexa’s weight keeping her grounded.

“You are unbelievably beautiful when you come apart in my arms,” Lexa says in soft wonder, skating butterfly kisses along the top of her shoulders, following its bend up her neck to the curve of her jaw. Brushing back Clarke’s damp hair, she asks, “Was that okay?”

“More than,” Clarke reassures, then tacks on, “I definitely do use you for only your body. This is a purely physical relationship.”

They both laugh.

“However you’ll have me,” Lexa says, kissing her slow. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

For how much she craves all that show of power a moment ago, Clarke is equally fond of dust pink cheeks and Lexa’s emollient aftercare.

Curled into Lexa’s lap, Clarke soaks in her presence. Solid and warm and body thrumming from their labour of love.

“Oof,” Clarke murmurs, rubbing at the soreness of her bum that’s just catching up to her.

Lexa’s reply shows no sympathy, though her gentle hold of Clarke says otherwise. “That’s what you get for messing with my plans.”

As far as punishments go, it’s the most pleasant kind.

—

The real penalty for the interlude, however, is Lexa staying away for awhile as she redoubles her concentration in the kitchen after they each clean up, separately. One round of shared self-care and a tryst on the couch, however intensive and attentive, aren’t enough—the pregnant eye contact they make on crossing paths in the bathroom say as much—but lest Lexa’s Valentine efforts collapse because of undiminished desire even after years together, it’s likely for the best. They are more than an hour behind schedule, apparently.

Clarke turns to reading, hoping the run of sentences will keep her on mission to not be a further hamper to Lexa’s progress. While Lexa endeavours to get things back on track, Clarke loses track of time. Somewhere between the history of colour theory and Josef Albers art of seeing, she must have fallen asleep. She’s gently roused by a soft stroking of her arm and an even softer, “Clarke.”

“Where my hot potatoes?” Clarke asks, disoriented as she comes out of a deeper than expected nap and a weird dream about spuds, slow-blinking from her haze.

“Hi,” Lexa greets, lightly laughing, lips skimming over hers in a tender hello.

“How long was I out for?”

“Awhile,” Lexa replies, a crinkling softness sitting at the corner of her eyes. “You must have been _really_ tired,” she says with tongue-in-cheek emphasis then asks more genuinely, “good nap?”

“Not long enough,” Clarke whines, nosing into Lexa’s sweater to hide her blush, and ready to close her eyes again feeling the heaviness return. Her body _is_ sore and tired.

Lexa humours the cuddling for a moment, brushing Clarke’s hair back into some semblance of order, combing through the more stubborn tendrils until Clarke is practically purring. Lexa laughs. “Lets go sleepy lion. You’ll want to be awake for this.” She stands up from her crouched position and extends a hand for Clarke to take. “It’s ready.”

“What’s ready?” Clarke accepts the offered help and is brought into Lexa’s embrace by a strong pull. Lexa must find her grogginess endearing because her mouth finds Clarke’s next and tries to soak up the haze in an absorbing kiss.

When they pull back and Clarke is turned around in Lexa’s arms, she finally comes to full wakefulness. Clarke gasps at their transformed apartment.

The kitchen is a mess as expected but their dining space, which often doubles as a work space, has traded in table and chairs for floor cushions and throws. A large lunch spread sits invitingly in the middle. With curtains pulled closed and candles strategically placed about, Lexa has recreated the ambiance of a Moroccan restaurant. Clarke rubs knuckles to her eyes, sure that it’s a mirage but the vision remains unchanging when her hands fall back to their side.

“You did all this?”

Lexa answers with a sheepish smile, a hand rubbing at the back of her neck in shy acknowledgment.

Coming out of all the earlier raucous, Clarke had kept her expectations low, assuming she’d get an elaborate smoothie maybe, or a pizza if lucky, but in no way considered Lexa attempting anything close to the adventurous menu before them. A feast of tagines, mezzes, hummus and wraps. With the added touch of scattered red lanterns setting their apartment in a warm glow, it’s as though they’ve swapped Bed-Stuy for Marrakech.

“It’s ... wow.”

“Thought I try blending something other than fruit,” Lexa downplays, scuffing her foot on the hardwood floor, rubbing at a suspiciously stained spot. “Didn’t want you leaving me because of papaya.”

Clarke laughs, a hearty burst of joy. Overcome with affection for the cook.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Clarke admonishes but squeezes Lexa’s hand to communicate how much she appreciates it anyway. “I would have been happy if we went for falafel from Saif.”

The Middle Eastern stand around the corner was a tried and true pick me upper. Saif, a kind young man who recites Iranian poetry to customers, works magic with a deep-fryer and makes everything pomegranate pretty. He’s hoping to save enough tuition money with his side job to fund a degree in comparative literature. He and Lexa have struck up a unique friendship around their love of letters and ball-shaped things.

“I know, I wanted to,” Lexa says, demure, not making eye contact. Clarke doesn’t press the issue, knowing the underlying motivation might be Lexa feeling bad about cancelling on the date Clarke had planned a few weeks back, a new Moroccan place Clarke wanted to try.

The pressure of architecture and art school have put a strain on the available time they could make for each other, not for lack of want or trying. But whatever her perceived negligence to their relationship, Lexa has now overcompensated with lavish care.

“It smells amazing,” Clarke compliments. Her nose has been piqued for hours and can finally marry a visual to the smells. Though she’s still at a loss for how Lexa managed the feat, she tips on her toes to kiss her gratitude. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”

“Come,” Lexa urges, tugging Clarke forward. “I saved you the best pillow spot next to me.”

Clarke laughs.

“Lead the way.”

—

“Where’d you get this pita bread from?” Clarke asks around a full mouth. It must come out garbled because Lexa’s brows knit cutely in confusion as she takes another of her own large bite. Clarke stops mid-chew to better annunciate, clarifying, “The pita, which shop?”

Before Lexa answers, she brushes the pad of her thumb across the bottom of Clarke’s lip, then sucks the excess sauce into her mouth. “I didn’t buy it.”

“You didn’t?”

Lexa shakes her head, a secretive smile crossing her features. It has Clarke curious and considering other alternatives. Did Raven and Octavia help out? Unlikely Anya because she refuses to take part in anything gay and gooey that would lead her sister to bedding Clarke.

“I made it.” That Lexa’s disclosure surprises her, is an understatement. Not a possibility she would have entertained. Ever.

“You made it?” Clarke asks, incredulous. “The pita?”

“I made it.” Lexa re-asserts, a pride in her voice. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes,” Clarke affirms without lag. Lexa laughs, knocking her shoulder in rebuke. Clarke stares down at the falafel wrap with renewed awe and distrust. “But how? It tastes _so_ good.”

“Hey!” Lexa mocks offence. “I am more than capable of rolling dough.”

“Are you though?”

“I am ...” Lexa insists and by the gleam in her eyes, Clarke knows how the rest of her sentence will end. Her warning look of, _don’t do it_ , is blatantly ignored, “ _very_ capable with my hands.”

Clarke shakes her head, hiding her amusement in garlicky, yeast-leavened flatbread that she wouldn’t even know where to begin how to make herself. Given Lexa’s repertoire starts and ends with avocado sandwiches and the occasional omelette, the leap to Middle Eastern fare is astounding. She challenges, “And the hummus and falafel balls and tahini sauce?”

“All me.”

Clarke squints her eyes, narrowing in doubt. Looks to the kitchen and the pile of kitchenware in the sink, the stack of dishes strewn everywhere and the ramekins of spices on the counter, then back to their lunch. If it’s true, then kudos to her whisk-challenged girlfriend for the elaborateness of the pretence and the display of clear effort. Still, she studies Lexa for the lie, unconvinced because of the giveaway of tapping fingers.

“Ok, fine.” Lexa finally yields, hiding her hand behind her back, shielding her nervous tick from further implication. Giving in under Clarke’s scrutiny, she admits, “It wasn’t all me.”

“I knew it.” Clarke needles, victorious.

“You’re right. I did buy the halloumi,” Lexa concedes. “I didn’t have time to go milk sheep and cows this morning because _someone_ was extra needy,” at this Clarke blushes, “so I purchased the cheese from Frank & Larry’s while you napped. Everything else ...” she trails off and wiggles her fingers meaningfully. Then stuffs a halloumi fry into her mouth, making an exaggerated show of crunching on the panko flakes.

Clarke shoves at her knee, laughing at the admirable commitment to the falsehood of Lexa’s sudden gastronomy brilliance. It stretches the limit of plausibility that Lexa would be aware of the existence of panko let alone know to double dip fries in the Japanese style breadcrumb. Though, if Lexa wants her to believe she handmade their meal from scratch, then Clarke will let her have it. It’s a minor concession compared to how far both their smiles currently reach their eyes.

“If I were to look in the kitchen bin, will there be takeout containers stuffed at the bottom?”

Lexa scowls, playful, but shrugs off Clarke’s lack of confidence in her. “Ye of little faith.”

“Not little,” Clarke chuckles, stealing a fry from her and wagging it with recrimination, “none at all.”

Lexa mocks hurt. “Then none for you,” she declares, making motion to gather the plates closer to her side.

Affronted, Clarke hurries to stop her, claiming through giggles, “Hey, no take backs. Dating 101 etiquette. It’s rude to take away a girl’s food halfway through her meal.”

“I’ll show you rude,” Lexa replies. She abandons the plate in her hand and grabs Clarke by the shirt, pulling her into a kiss that turns out softer than the tightness of her grip advertised.

Hit with the taste of cumin and cardamom and cinnamon, of Mediterranean herbs and spices, it’s confirmation that there’s no way Lexa has the ability to reproduce this richness and subtlety of flavour on scant understanding of the difference between coriander and colander. No matter, Lexa is operating under the impression that slow kissing is a persuasive form of argument for convincing Clarke of her out-of-thin-air acquired knowledge of the nuances of kibbeh, kofta and kebab.

When they part, Clarke gives her one last knowing look at the obviousness of her ploy to detract before acquiescing to drop the debate, prompting, “Tell me about your week.”

The subject change pivots them into a chat about the days and hours they didn’t spend together, each sequestered to their studio space. They go over the progress of individual as well as group projects, commiserating in particular about the frustrations of the latter. On the state of the former, Lexa falters a bit with her recount, an unexpected bashfulness in her tone.

“Is it not going well?” Clarke asks.

“No, it is. Really well actually,” Lexa clarifies, though her reddening cheeks are curious. Clarke nudges her knee to expand. “So you know how my final assignment is a residential project, imagining the possibilities of housing, what it could be in 10, 25, or 50 years?”

Clarke nods. She had been intrigued by the design brief. What is the future of residential living? Lexa and her fellow graduating students were tasked to address or challenge what it means to reside in today’s world—and consider emerging or other concepts of gender and family and models of domesticity. Prompted to find creative ways of responding to new conditions and ideas of habitat and community and interpersonal relationships.

“Well, my design thesis questions the heteronormativity of typical housing design,” Lexa explains, pausing to sift through her thoughts and formulate her next words.

“Yeah,” Clarke encourages, recalling the concept of a straightening device Lexa has taught her, how queer bodies have to constantly reorient and realign to navigate the norms of a straight world. But even before learning of Sara Ahmed’s theory, Clarke knew this much already, well aware of Lexa balking at the ‘his and hers’ and the tacit gendering of spaces rampant in architecture, from hotel monogrammed towels and slippers to the layout and sizes of closets in homes to the division of rooms based on outdated notions of the nuclear family.

“Well, in my last work-in-progress showing, the invited critic was extremely generous with her feedback.”

“That’s great, babe.” Clarke beams proud. She squeezes Lexa’s arm. “What did she say exactly?”

The blushing returns. “In not so many words that, um,” Lexa mutters, “it’s very gay.”

Clarke laughs, not surprised in the least. “Why, was it covered in rainbows?”

“Might as well have been.” Lexa plays along, then relays. “She liked the way I was considering what life as a twosome means, of how we share space, give room to and for one another. She gave me some really great references on queer spatial theory and other things to think about.”

“You’ve worked so hard. I’m glad someone else recognises it.”

“Honestly, it hasn’t been much of a hardship. I’ve been basically designing my dream home,” Lexa pauses and makes purposeful eye contact, holding Clarke’s gaze for a soft, significant beat, “with you, us, in mind.”

 _Oh_. A knot tightens in her stomach at the same time her heart skips a beat, an unnamed but ambivalent feeling rising. Warmth and weary intermingle in confusion.

Before Clarke can identify the conflict, Lexa runs off, by the sounds of it into the hallway to rummage through her school bag, and returns with a set of drawing plans. Pushing dishes and doubt aside, Clarke makes room on the floor for the impromptu show and tell.

Her breath catches reading the drawing’s title block: A Cabin for Two, and underneath it in a smaller font size, the subtitle: (Maybe Three or Four).

Ignoring the returning wiggle of worry, on seeing Lexa’s excitement—a contagious smile—Clarke’s lips stretch in the same manner.

“Do you know what cross-laminated timber is?”

“I do not. Please tell me,” Clarke teases.

Lexa launches into a breathless description of what their ideal dwelling would be like. Her account is so vivid, Clarke buys into the fantasy, even able to visualise what materials she’d use despite not having a clue about wood varieties or masonry lengths. Normandy 290 mm means nothing to her but she can picture it nonetheless. A black brick contemporary structure nestled in the woods, overlooking water. Huge expansive windows framed by quarter-sawed Douglas fir wood. Can feel the run of grain under her fingers as Lexa details the cut and texture.

The cabin includes an artist space for Clarke and an adjacent sun-filled reading room, the layout inspired by the design of a photographer’s studio that sits over a boat house—a glass pavilion perched on a dark granite plinth at the edge of a lake in Canada. The way Lexa speaks of layered thresholds and pivoting or sliding doors and the quality of diffuse light changing from one space to another, Clarke can imagine their movements through the house, tracked to sunrises and sunsets. It’s an evocative narrative absent of partitions and enclosures, instead open and airy, taking into account a porous way to co-live.

As Clarke listens, she looks around at the future they’ve already started building in this apartment in Brooklyn, the life they’ve crafted out of found furniture and re-loved items from yard sales. The choreography of their daily rhythms in the small space, carved around each other. Of the domestic intimacies of a dog-eared book on top of a shared favourite blanket, the mixing of Lexa’s minimalism and Clarke’s paint-splattered maximimalism, a soft collision of the subdued and monochromatic with the ebullient and colourful.

It’s a tempting exercise to marry the two blueprints. An imaginary for what after college may be and can look like; for when grad school and internships are completed, titles and professional standings earned; for when they grow up past these walls that are saturated in formative years of friendship and love, visually evident by charcoal lines and photographic prints.

It’s ... a lot. Clarke doesn’t yet know how to process the uptick of her heart. So, distractedly, she points to an empty, untagged room.

“What’s this space here?”

“Not sure yet,” Lexa answers, sounding more careful with her words than usual. “Could be a guest room or a play room for Lincoln and O’s eventual army of kids or ...”

The implied _ours_ hangs mid air as Lexa nervously fiddles with the corner of her drawing, smoothing out a corner that isn’t wrinkled.

Something of Lexa’s apprehension makes Clarke abandon her own.

“That’ll be nice,” she says, a soft reassurance that whatever the purpose, it will be more than okay. “C’mere,” she urges when Lexa looks unsure like she’s revealed too much at once.

“I’d happily live in a paper shack or a bedouin’s tent with you,” Clarke says. She cups Lexa’s face, kissing either cheek before expanding, “So long as there is semi-decent plumbing,” followed by a boop of her nose, “a socket for your hairdryer,” running fingers through her sex-mussed hair, “storage for my paints and your candles and lip balms,” a graze of her lips, “and a place to lay our heads down next to each other,” then pressing their foreheads together, “everything else is a bonus.”

Clarke kisses her properly then, taking the lead this time in directing the course of their conversation to be a meeting and sliding of mouths. She has to admit, Lexa’s got the right idea, it’s an effective means of communication. Changing her mind about the basic necessities of accommodation, Clarke thinks they could be nomads in the desert for all she cares if it’s possible to subsist on the taste of Lexa’s lips alone.

“Thank you.” Clarke tells her after they part.

Green eyes brighten, full of affection. “You’re welcome. Kiss me anytime.”

They both know that’s not what Clarke is referencing but Clarke lets it slide to return to their late lunch.

Over uncontained smiles and more chatter, they finish their meal and, once relocated to the living area with the same blanket setup, spend the rest of the afternoon in front of the TV watching a Lexa-curated list of Middle Eastern romcoms. Like the last film’s title, after humouring wandering hands and indulging messy kisses, Clarke can’t think straight. Always maintaining some point of contact, Lexa has sought every opportunity to get Clarke on her back, the counter and couch incident still fresh in mind.

Through all of it, whether making conversation or making out, Clarke is grinning so hard, it becomes another cocoon she’s pained to leave. This time, however, she initiates.

“Lex, we have to clean up,” Clarke tries, panting the request as Lexa continues to press into her, a thigh between her legs.

“Hmm, later,” Lexa puts off while tracing over Clarke’s stomach with her hand before it roams southward under the waistband of her pants.

Clarke catches the itinerant groper by the wrist. “Hey, trust me, you’ll be thankful later.”

“Let me thank you now.”

“Why would you be thanking me?” Clarke asks, vainly fighting Lexa’s persistence, which has refocused to her chest area. “I haven’t given you anything yet.”

The hand on her breast squeezes. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

“That was terrible.” Laughing in spite of herself, Clarke offers a compromise. “How about a deal? I’ll do a quick tidy while you go wash up.”

Lexa’s eyebrows lift in curiosity. She prods, “Why do you want me clean again?” despite the answer being obvious, asking anyway, “What’s in it for me?”

“Something waiting for you on the bed,” Clarke says, skirting around the topic, thinking of how her backup gift for Lexa is less elaborate than Moroccan cuisine but still oriented towards their mutual enjoyment. “It benefits both of us actually,” she entices and leaves it on that vague, suggestive note, disentangling from Lexa and making her way to the kitchen with extra sway to her hips.

Some disgruntled acceptance and movements later, Clarke hears dragging footsteps, followed by silence then faltering sounds of drawers rapidly opening and closing, and finally the shower running at full blast, like Lexa is aiming to complete her hygiene routine in record time. She must have been motivated by her discovery in the bedroom.

Clarke smiles to herself and scrubs the plate in the sink a bit faster. Anticipation builds for a great end to a great day. Too occupied with thoughts of the fit of Lexa’s gift, when she goes to clear the leftovers of the next plate, it takes an extended second to heed something’s missing. Or rather what’s not. There’s no evidence of discarded takeout containers in the garbage can under the sink nor in the recycle box next to it. It gives her pause. It is mildly shocking to realise all the grime of pots and pans and mixing bowls Clarke has just washed might have been for real. The flurry of prep activity certainly _sounded_ like the back of house of a restaurant. What Clarke had presumed to be a performance, maybe Lexa _was_ telling the truth.

Seeing Lexa’s efforts in a new light, Clarke is more keen to finish up out here and show her gratitude in there.

—

Like the day’s turn of events, it doesn’t go exactly as planned, another activity derailed. When she joins Lexa after putting the last dish on the drying rack, it’s to an unusual display of a usual sight.

Clarke covers her mouth to cover her laugh.

Lexa is naked and star-fished diagonally across their bed, completely plonked out on her back. Bright pink silicone hangs from her pelvis while she snores dreamily as if the new toy Clarke had purchased for this occasion isn’t strapped beneath her toned stomach.

Under other circumstances, seeing Lexa’s nudity and the accompanying length would be arousing but in the moment Clarke only feels a deep swell of affection. With tenderness, she unbuckles Lexa out of the harness, slow and careful not to disturb her sleeping girlfriend.

When an unintended jostle gets a reaction, she bites back more laughter at Lexa’s mumbling, drowsy pronouncement, an earnest, “I’m clean. Ready to go.”

“You’re also very tired, sweetie,” Clarke muses, endeared.

Easily overcoming the feeble objection, Clarke shushes her from fully waking, stroking through strands of unruly hair in a way that coos her into predictable contentment, back to sleep. With the residual soreness between Clarke’s legs, blissful as it is, perhaps it’s a disguised blessing that Lexa has no energy to properly protest let alone take advantage of her gift now.

As the dildo is deposited back into its ripped-opened box, Clarke has little doubt they’ll make good use of it later, if not then for certain in the morning when Lexa is at her most wanting of Clarke. She can imagine their lovemaking, the effort Lexa will put in to make up for falling asleep. How wet Clarke will be under Lexa’s weight, the press of her hands, and the pumping of her hips as the seven inches move in and out of her at first a languorous pace then a more urgent one. How Clarke will moan and whimper and pant as Lexa drives deeper while pinning her hands above her head and whispering star-strung affection into her ears.

There’ll be exchanges of ‘I love yous’ between unyielding thrusts and gasps for lost air before Lexa pulls out at the height of their shared cries and—following protracted minutes of indescribable pleasure—Clarke comes hard on her tongue. By other means but with similar intent Clarke will draw out the same outcome from Lexa, to such a degree that, orgasm not yet ended, Lexa scrambles to take her and bend and break her body over and over again. In different positions, at different speeds, by different techniques, Clarke will know exactly how much she is loved. Losing count and sweaty and sore, they will curl around each other afterwards and will kiss a wordless good morning, a greeting full of the taste of themselves. Of filtering sunlight. Of a day just beginning.

Something of a future to look forward to.

For now, Clarke settles into her side, lying diagonal too, and covers them both with the duvet best she can at this awkward angle. The good kind of exhaustion overtakes her body, sinking into this peaceful warmth and syncing with the quiet rhythm of Lexa’s breathing.

Just as her eyes are about to close, Lexa’s phone vibrates where it’s buried by her side that Clarke hadn’t noticed before. Digging it out, the screen lights up then with two text notifications. Clarke doesn’t mean to look, intending to blindly place it on the night table, but the glow of a familiar name catches her attention.

Saif: _My pleasure, anytime, Lexa. Anything for my favourite customers._

Saif: _I am glad she enjoyed it. It’s my mother’s special recipe._

Clarke’s mouth gapes open, staring in disbelief, yet unsurprised, at her innocent looking girlfriend, snoozing as if she _did_ slave hours over the stove, wrestling with the mixer for glory. Saif must have dropped the bags of food off while Clarke napped earlier and left with the evidence and Clarke none the wiser. Leave it to Lexa to involve a would-be poet in her wooing mission. Shaking her head in fondness, Clarke laughs quietly to herself, re-tucking into the space that’s made for her.

Instantly, out of subconscious habit and on autopilot, Lexa drifts closer, pulling her tighter, body relaxing and pulse steadying once distance is completely erased. Clarke sags further into Lexa’s arms.

Where they are currently in their lives, time is fading and there is little she can do about its onward march; their youth is slipping but in this brief pocket of a beat between a second and a millennia, under the solidness of Lexa, it doesn’t much matter. She’ll hang onto this moment for as long as her paint-stained hands can hold.

Head lain protectively over Lexa’s chest and that very tender and very gay heart, Clarke speaks softly into her skin.

“Happy Valentine, love.”

Leaning into the familiar warmth, she falls asleep to the promises latent in the ‘maybe’ of Lexa’s plans.

Clarke dreams of a cabin in the woods for two (maybe three or four).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: since this prologue/epilogue follows the general trajectory of the main fic, the next instalment is gonna be a sad one folks. Clarke's first valentine's without Lexa, during their breakup. Much pining and angst :( BUT given the source material and this soft writer, _obviously_ the story ends very, very happy!
> 
> Thank you for reading and happy clexaweek :)
> 
>  **updated note July 2020** : seeing as the next two chapters are angsty, I'm marking the fic complete for now. Will add other instalments once the pandemic and other current crises settle and my own heart can handle non-fluff! Be safe out there.


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